For several years now, I’ve been trying to arrange a
tour of Britain with my band—and I think that’s been solved. I hope so,
anyway.

We were at the first Swedish Jazz Festival at Lanskrona
in September. Basie was on it, too. We had a couple of English musicians
in the band—Ronnie Scott and Derek Humble. Most of the musicians were
European. Some were American—they had been in the band before.

It’s getting rather simple to put the band together now,
because every time we bring the band over three or four musicians stay
in Europe. So three more trips and I’ll have the whole band here! My early
background was mainly what they call Rhythm & Blues today. The only
bands that I was really exposed to when I was very young were either Gospel
groups or Rhythm & Blues bands from California—by living in Seattle.
That’s what we heard most until the records came out with Charlie Parker
and Dizzy Gillespie. And then it became a fusion of all these elements.

Ray Charles was in Seattle at that time and, from what
his reputation is today, you wouldn’t even recognise him then. He sang
like Nat Cole and he had a very modern group called the Maxim Trio. We
had all sorts of projects together at that time—and he was a big influence
on my writing. He was very, very modern then—not so much blues.

Though he still incorporates the same elements today
even in his backgrounds. He’s wonderful to work with. He knows what he’s
doing.

I had been playing trumpet a year or two when I found
I was playing wrong. I played on the inside of my lip. which wouldn’t
have done me much good when I went with Lionel Hampton finally—because
that lip would have lasted about two hours! You really had to blow with
Hamp’s band. At that time I think the lowest note he had in the section
was a high F! That’s a band where you either lose your chops or they get
real strong.

So when Clark Terry came through with Basie’s sextet
that he had in 1950, I took lessons from him. We just lived together almost
the whole time. I would hardly let him out to eat.

Clark is fantastic. He’s still one of my favourite trumpet
players. It was a thrill to have him in the band. It’s wonderful to have
your teacher to play for you! He’s always been an individualist. And I
understand he had a big influence on Miles as a kid, too. They’re both
from East St. Louis.

Anyway, the following year I went to University in Seattle.
but there was a little too much mediaeval history there for me. At that
point I wanted to get away from home—so I went as far as I could go. I
had a scholarship to the Schillinger House Of Music in Boston, so—boom.

I was with Lionel Hampton’s band for three years. When
I had the offer to join him it was a matter of deciding whether to stay
for the three years left in the scholarship or to get out there in the
field of practical experience, travelling, working every night and trying
arrangements out—which, in a more professional sense, can be a school,
too. It was quite a difficult decision to make. But I ended up with Hamp.

Hamp always had a very good band. At this time he had
Milt Buckner, Jimmy Cleveland. When we came to Europe in ‘53 he had Clifford
Brown, Art Farmer, Gigi Gryce, George Wallington. Annie Ross was the vocalist
with the band. It was fabulous. So much so that it became difficult for
any of us to ever leave the band, because all the guys were in love with
each other musically. Finally, we had to leave the band en masse.
Eleven left at once. I think—right after Paris.

It would be pretty difficult to assemble a group of musicians
like that in one band. It really would. Because I think Benny Golson,
Clifford Brown and Gigi Gryce were the last three guys to join the band—in
Atlantic City, when Tadd Dameron’s band broke up. And it would be hard
to run into a comparable crop of new, young musicians.

Actually, the first record I made was with Art Farmer
for Prestige. I wrote an album for him called “Work Of Art”. That was
with musicians from the band, and it was a thrilling moment for us—to
have Art get a record session. We rehearsed and prepared for it for two
months. We had the luxury of time that we can’t afford today. Incidentally,
during my stay with Hamp we had a tremendous awakening in Sweden. I imagine
anybody that has never left the States has the feeling that the Americans
play far better than most European musicians—in jazz, anyway. In many
ways this is a fallacy. It was exaggerated. I don’t mean that we felt
that we were superior, but we had a feeling that it wasn’t quite up to
the same standard that we had in New York.

I’ll never forget when we came in from Oslo, having just
heard a few Dixieland groups—nothing that could shake us up, really. We
came into Stockholm by train and when we got off, all ready to wail and
tear the place down—there on a baggage cart were eight musicians, including
Ernie Englund, Bengt Hallberg, Ake Persson. .and Simon Brehm—and they
were wailing! I said: “If the welcome band is playing like this I think
we better just leave now!” As a matter of fact they were playing “Flying
Home,” with all the modern chords in the middle, beautiful arrangements
and swinging like mad.

When I left Hamp I went to work for CBS with the Ray
Anthony band. I settled down in New York for a little while and started
the freelance arranging thing—records and so on. Once you get involved
in that cycle it never ends. You do a little bit of everything. I worked
for ABC Studios for a while, various record companies and bands, James
Moody’s band, Tommy Dorsey. It was wonderful. It’s good experience and
you really get a rounded scope and insight into the music business.

I was almost house arranger for Em Arcy, because
Bobby Shad was there at the time and we worked together a lot. He was
the A and R director then. And we did things with Brownie, Helen Merrill,
Dinah Washington. I used to write quite a bit for them then. But I was
not under contract as artist or arranger. I didn’t sign a contract, in
fact, until about three years ago—with Mercury.

And I also did some freelance albums for ABC Paramount,
Impulse, Prestige and various companies. At that time it was wiser to
stay free. I imagine every musician that has been on the road knows it’s
like a fever that you never really want to lose. I think every entertainer
is prey to it.

Like Sarah was saying the other night how she enjoyed
working here with Basic for three weeks—back on the band bus again, with
the card games and whatever goes on in band buses. It’s so much a part
of your life that you can never really say you’re through with it, and
not enjoy it occasionally. I guess that why you enjoy it at this point
is that you feel pretty safe that you don’t have to do it steadily.

So in 1956 I got the road fever again and Dizzy Gillespie
came up with the proposition of organising a band for him, because he
would be occupied with the JATP tour for Norman Granz over here in Europe.
You know, Dizzy’s very candid and he says everything in a very simple
way. He said: “Put me a band together. We’re going to do a State Department
tour. Write a show, a two–hour presentation and meet me in Rome.” And
that was it. I didn’t see him again until we had written a show and put
the band together. We met him in Rome and went down to the Middle East,
Turkey and Greece, Pakistan, South America—everywhere. Dizzy’s a fantastic
leader, a fantastic musician—a real giant.

I wish I had been able to write more than I did for the
Gillespie band. We had planned to do all sorts of things. But with the
practical side of a big band it’s hard to keep your ideals. Ernie Wilkins
and Melba Liston were in the band, so there were about four arrangers,
with Gillespie. And Dizzy said : “Before you leave on the tour I want
you to go down and get seven pads of score paper. No, you better get twelve.
‘Cause we’re really going to write a lot of new music, and we’re going
to do this and do that.” But when you’re doing one–nighters you don’t
have too much time. Even eating is a luxury. And between seeing all the
new things in the city, eating and sleeping, and playing the concert—that’s
about all the time you have.

It used to take four of us to get one arrangement out. We’d have to sit
down and just force it out, because it was too tempting to try to absorb
all the local atmosphere. So we came back with about eleven pads still
empty. It was just that time didn’t permit us to do what we wanted to
do. It was the same with my band, too. I was occupied most of the time
with trying to keep it alive.